John sat silently in his chair, his fingertips gently kneading his temple. He stared at the indentations Sherlock had left in the chair opposite him. Two round depressions in the arms of the leather chair, where he would rest his elbows when he was lost in his endless thoughts. There was a deep trench in the head where Sherlock's neck fit perfectly. John thought about the times when Sherlock would be so insufferable and sulky. He would lie on that chair for hours at a time, with a vacant look in his eye like he was completely disconnected from the world that people were aware of. John would stare at him and imagine all of the thoughts coursing through the man's head. The occasional flicker of light in his eye, or twitch of the finger would interrupt complete stillness. John often looked past his annoyance and found these hours of Sherlock's disconnection fascinating and beautiful.
John often caught Sherlock looking at him with the same fascination and interest. Sherlock loved observing John when he was doing mundane things such as, reading the paper or making coffee for the two of them. The familiarity and routine Sherlock felt when he was with John was comfortable, unlike all the other uniformity in the world. John thought of all of the things that he would never get the chance to say. John snapped back to reality, and realized that he hadn't been breathing. The silence was too much to bear so he let out a shallow and slow breath. He glanced at his watch, sighing.
"Almost midnight" he muttered to himself, "the end of a 3rd year without you, Sherlock."
He glanced up at the chair again deciding whether or not to go to bed. Eventually, he reached for his cane and stood up. He turned and limped slowly towards his bedroom for yet another sleepless night.